Truth

A Poem That Calls Itself 'Poem'

                      A Poem That Calls Itself 'Poem':        

I wonder if maybe I am weird,

Because I don’t care if I am,

But it seems that I might be.

I also think about that lonely tree in the woods,

How we all wonder if it can be heard if no one is there when it falls.

I think it’s sad,

Because we speculate the inevitable death

And think we might just be the reason for its life.

Why would we be the reason? I ask.

Why not a blade of grass or deer grazing on that grass

Or the wind blowing through that grass

Or the sky above us?

Then again, I think most religions base many things on the sky,

And it all seems like so much work for one thing.

I wonder sometimes if it ever gets lonely up there,

And if, as a whole, it means much more than even those very religious people think it does.

Maybe it doesn’t house God, or maybe it does.

Maybe it’s blue because it wants to be blue,

Not because that’s what we see it as.

Maybe it’s up there

And that’s all there is to it.

Sometimes I think about silverware and trees and flowers and buildings,

But I like thinking of it all at once,

Because, if you think about everything,

To me,

That seems the only way to truly speculate about the world.

I don’t want to speculate, though,

Because, just like that lonely tree out in the woods,

Who are we to give it sound?

Who are we to say ‘This is how it is’ because that is what we believe it to be?

No, if you think too much,

You will most likely come up with as many lies as truths.

And maybe there is no such thing as lies or truths,

Because, If you think about it,

There really is no need to do such over-thinking,

And that seems like a pretty good answer to me.